My mom works for a company that has a network of programs attached to hospitals throughout the east coast who work with geriatric patients. My knowledge of the programs are limited, but I definitely know that their services are greatly needed as growing old in America is not for the faint of heart. With her position, every so often my mom has to travel to these programs and my summer visit to Kentucky coincided with a planned work trip to Eastern Kentucky. My parents are well aware of my love for road trips, so mom asked me to join her (though, in full disclosure, her recovery from knee surgery meant that I was the perfect candidate for chauffeur - which I happily did.)
Mom's itinerary was West Liberty, MacDowell, and Hyden, with us spending a night in Hazard. My plan for the journey was while mom worked, I would explore. Mom kept cautioning me that these were small communities, to which I replied that there had to be at least one cemetery to roam - everyone dies.
As we drove into West Liberty, mom told me that this community had been devastated by a tornado in 2012. Tornadoes in the mountains are extremely rare; when one does touchdown the damage is usually catastrophic because the twister becomes trapped within the valley and ravages anything in its path. Sadly, West Liberty had been devastated. Main Street was obliterated. Mom even spoke of a house that had been taken off the mountain top and dropped next to the hospital, where is remains to this day. Due to summer foliage, I did not get a glimpse of this home so far from its foundation.
After dropping mom off at the West Liberty hospital, I drove the car down the mountain into the valley and onto main street, which had been rebuilt with the common town buildings - a courthouse and city offices. I did the one pass, looking for a parking spot so I could leave the car and meander, but at the end of main street I found what I had predicted - a cemetery. The Salyer Cemetery covered the mountainside. To this day, I am still fascinated that coffins are not sporadically sighted in the roadside ditches after having slid down the mountainside. As I strolled through the headstones, I eventually had to take off my flip flops in hopes that my bare feet would grip the dewy grass better so that I would not end up in a heap in the ditch.
The cemetery was old with a dash of current residents. The oldest tombstone I found was for a James Wendall who was born in 1824 and departed this earth on 1864. One-year-old Billy Jr.'s gravestone bore the epitaph: He was the sunshine of our home. The Watson tombstone was a mystery for three people died on the same day - June 1, 1947. Rebecca A Henry's tombstone was the winner for most direct and funniest epitaph: Life's work well done, then comes rest.
The most perplexing thing about the cemetery was the hodge podge placement of the headstones. It was a bizarre maze, more than I had ever seen in any cemetery. It was only after I was reunited with mom that she figured it out - the tornado had moved the headstones. She told me that after the massive tornado in my hometown in the 1970s, weathermen were measuring the distance between the base and the actual tombstone in order to gauge the actual wind speed of the tornado. It seems the same fate had hit Salyer Cemetery, tombstones were left to lie, far removed from their initial placement.
After I had thoroughly examined the cemetery and had succeeded in not sliding down the mountainside, I found a parking spot on main street and meandered. To my delight, I discovered a hidden local museum tucked behind the home health building. The museum was eclectic - one part homage to William Barber (a local man who made a name for himself in the Marines during WWII and Korean War), another part for any locals who had served in the military, and the third part for the local lore. The museum attendant was chatty, which was delightful because, as she walked me around the local lore section, I learned about the local doctor's scandalous affair that produced an illegitimate child and my attention was directed to the primitive rolling pin carved by Daniel Williams sometime between 1763 and 1820 (which had a document beneath it showing the entire lineage of ownership.) It must be noted that at nearly every showcase, most explanations included the sentence, "...now this person was so-and-so in my family." I think she was and continues to be related to everyone in West Liberty. Sadly, my deadline drew near and I was unable to continue to glean all the scandals and family connections housed within the small stone building.
Upon retrieving my mom, the director was amazed to hear of my finds. She was shocked that I had been completely content the entire time. As mom and I stepped onto the elevator, she said, "Oh, I should have told you about the lady ghost who haunts this hospital." Thus, I left West Liberty on a cliff hanger.
Our next stop was MacDowell, which I will say was everything my mom had said - there is nothing there. The lay of the land was mountain, hospital, road, gas station, creek, all so closely nestled that I was amazed that so much could actually fit in that tiny ribbon of a valley. This community was so small I could not find the local cemetery, so I resigned myself to some writing and walking around the hospital parking lot. In my stroll, I did meet a Filipino family, who I did stop and inquire as to how they ended up in a no where town. They were shocked at my lack-of-mountainese accent and ability to chat about the Phillippines, just as I was shocked at their mere presence. They worked in the hospital lab, a work visa granted to those willing to stay in poverty stricken areas for a number of years. I was in awe. Mom came out of the hospital as I was chatting with them, and she said, "You can find anyone to talk to, even in a small place like this." I learned it from her.
With her day's work finished, we headed to Hazard, the metropolis of the area. While piddling in MacDowell, I had googled things to do in Hazard and the top choice was the Mother Goose House - a house with a goose on top. I told mom we had to go. After checking in at the hotel, I mentioned this number one Hazard site to the receptionist and asked whether is was worth a visit. She chuckled and printed out directions for us.
Our quest took us into the lower part of Hazard (the upper part being where strip mining took the top of the mountain and thus became the location of new development - the chain stores and restaurants.) The lower part is where the main street and dwellings follow the curve of the mountain base, a lovely drive with such a variety of architecture. As foretold, we could not miss the Mother Goose House. It was big and bold and very much situated on top of the house. It was the perfect weird for me, and I think mom even enjoyed finding something unique. (Upon further research, the Mother Goose has looked over lower Hazard since 1940. Its creation and completion were by George Stacy, a local man who worked for the railroad and one day had the bizarre idea to turn the roof of his house into a fowl. I am forever grateful for a man who could have such a vision and a great sense of humor.)
The next day, we went to Hyden. I cannot precisely say what caused it, but within the span of three hours, I was captivated by the charm of this small community. Unlike our previous two stops, this small community had an air of purpose and pride, especially concerning the hospital. The first people I met were the two ladies running the local program (my mom's appointment for the day.) Welcoming and ever-so-cheerful they were; one woman won my adoration when she said she loved to visit cemeteries after I told my mom I was off to discover things, like the local cemetery. This woman even took me to a window to point out the first one I should visit.
The Hickory Street pioneer cemetery was the first stop in my walk, a small grassy knoll filled with the founders of Hyden and their slaves (which were buried in the far corner.) The last person to be buried in the cemetery (so said the sign) was Margaret Combs Lewis (aka Peggy) in 1907. After about fifteen minutes of peering at tombstones and matching what I saw to the the posted map and history, I continued onward. I ended up on main street, garnering a lot of looks when I stopped to read a tourist sign outside the jail. Perhaps those peering out the windows were trying to understand why I was laughing out loud. I could not help myself after reading the following:
The two principal creeks, Cut-Shin and Hell-Fer-Sertin, supposedly received their colorful names from a disillusioned pioneer who tried to cross the swollen creeks after heavy rains. Among the towns, and villages in the county are Confluence, Cutshin, Sizerock, Smilax, Stinnett, Thousandsticks, Wooton, and Wendover.
Any town that can embrace a creek named Hell-Fer-Sertin has my interest.
After leaving the jail and window gawkers, I walked into the local library. Librarians tend to be a fount of knowledge and the wiry woman who greeted me did not disappoint. She was gracious and delighted in my questions and quest for recommendations on local sites and reads. She was persistent that I should check out a couple books, but when I calmly told her that I lived in China and they would be horribly overdue by next summer, she agreed that checking out may not be the best option. She wrote them on a piece of paper for me instead.
After leaving the library, I did find another cemetery but could not linger long for the mosquitoes moved in hordes among the tombstones.
I strolled into the School for Bluegrass Music, but after waiting for five minutes in the lobby to inquire whether a museum was located within the school, I realized I could have absconded with the electronics for the workers were having a grand time somewhere down a hallway.
I returned to the hospital via the main entrance so I could admire the statue at its corner with the main road. Mary Breckinridge is the local heroine, revered by locals and rightly so. In 1925 she began the Frontier Nursing Service, a midwife service to the mountains. In 1939, she opened the Frontier Nursing University (FNU), a midwifery school. Her story is fascinating - working alongside nurses in France during WWI, training to be a midwife in England, forsaking a life of high society to ride on horseback through the hollers of Appalachia. Her mark on the health of mothers and children in the area was great. Because of her, babies survived. Mothers survived. Families could thrive. On horseback, she and fellow nurses traversed far and wide. When the paths were inaccessible, people were floated down the creeks in canoes. Throughout the hospital (which is named for her), pictures depict her life and work. On the street corner, a statue stands in her honor. One of the best statues I have seen created and erected for a local hero.
At this point, I was due to meet mom. To my surprise and delight, we took the two ladies to lunch which provided a great opportunity for me to ask questions about the area. Plus, I learned they teach a local culture class for nursing students who must do a rotation at FNU during their studies at out-of-the-mountains universities. Mom even shared that when she was a student, she too went to Hyden and stayed in Wendover (Mary Breckinridge's home) during her two week rotation.
After lunch, mom and I went to the FNU campus. I had to catch a glimpse of such an iconic part of the community and mom wanted to retrace some steps from long ago, which involved seeing the brick from Florence Nightingale's home that was placed in the dormitory's fireplace mantle. Sadly, we learned there are plans to move the FNU campus closer to Lexington.
As we drove away from Hyden, I felt as though I had barely investigated it. Perhaps I was enamored as one who gets to visit, but does not have to live the day to day, but I sincerely hope I will return.
Our drive through the Appalachia region was at its end and we wove our way into the foothills bound for a reunion with my husband, Stephen, and McKinzee.
Mom's itinerary was West Liberty, MacDowell, and Hyden, with us spending a night in Hazard. My plan for the journey was while mom worked, I would explore. Mom kept cautioning me that these were small communities, to which I replied that there had to be at least one cemetery to roam - everyone dies.
As we drove into West Liberty, mom told me that this community had been devastated by a tornado in 2012. Tornadoes in the mountains are extremely rare; when one does touchdown the damage is usually catastrophic because the twister becomes trapped within the valley and ravages anything in its path. Sadly, West Liberty had been devastated. Main Street was obliterated. Mom even spoke of a house that had been taken off the mountain top and dropped next to the hospital, where is remains to this day. Due to summer foliage, I did not get a glimpse of this home so far from its foundation.
After dropping mom off at the West Liberty hospital, I drove the car down the mountain into the valley and onto main street, which had been rebuilt with the common town buildings - a courthouse and city offices. I did the one pass, looking for a parking spot so I could leave the car and meander, but at the end of main street I found what I had predicted - a cemetery. The Salyer Cemetery covered the mountainside. To this day, I am still fascinated that coffins are not sporadically sighted in the roadside ditches after having slid down the mountainside. As I strolled through the headstones, I eventually had to take off my flip flops in hopes that my bare feet would grip the dewy grass better so that I would not end up in a heap in the ditch.
The cemetery was old with a dash of current residents. The oldest tombstone I found was for a James Wendall who was born in 1824 and departed this earth on 1864. One-year-old Billy Jr.'s gravestone bore the epitaph: He was the sunshine of our home. The Watson tombstone was a mystery for three people died on the same day - June 1, 1947. Rebecca A Henry's tombstone was the winner for most direct and funniest epitaph: Life's work well done, then comes rest.
The most perplexing thing about the cemetery was the hodge podge placement of the headstones. It was a bizarre maze, more than I had ever seen in any cemetery. It was only after I was reunited with mom that she figured it out - the tornado had moved the headstones. She told me that after the massive tornado in my hometown in the 1970s, weathermen were measuring the distance between the base and the actual tombstone in order to gauge the actual wind speed of the tornado. It seems the same fate had hit Salyer Cemetery, tombstones were left to lie, far removed from their initial placement.
After I had thoroughly examined the cemetery and had succeeded in not sliding down the mountainside, I found a parking spot on main street and meandered. To my delight, I discovered a hidden local museum tucked behind the home health building. The museum was eclectic - one part homage to William Barber (a local man who made a name for himself in the Marines during WWII and Korean War), another part for any locals who had served in the military, and the third part for the local lore. The museum attendant was chatty, which was delightful because, as she walked me around the local lore section, I learned about the local doctor's scandalous affair that produced an illegitimate child and my attention was directed to the primitive rolling pin carved by Daniel Williams sometime between 1763 and 1820 (which had a document beneath it showing the entire lineage of ownership.) It must be noted that at nearly every showcase, most explanations included the sentence, "...now this person was so-and-so in my family." I think she was and continues to be related to everyone in West Liberty. Sadly, my deadline drew near and I was unable to continue to glean all the scandals and family connections housed within the small stone building.
Upon retrieving my mom, the director was amazed to hear of my finds. She was shocked that I had been completely content the entire time. As mom and I stepped onto the elevator, she said, "Oh, I should have told you about the lady ghost who haunts this hospital." Thus, I left West Liberty on a cliff hanger.
Our next stop was MacDowell, which I will say was everything my mom had said - there is nothing there. The lay of the land was mountain, hospital, road, gas station, creek, all so closely nestled that I was amazed that so much could actually fit in that tiny ribbon of a valley. This community was so small I could not find the local cemetery, so I resigned myself to some writing and walking around the hospital parking lot. In my stroll, I did meet a Filipino family, who I did stop and inquire as to how they ended up in a no where town. They were shocked at my lack-of-mountainese accent and ability to chat about the Phillippines, just as I was shocked at their mere presence. They worked in the hospital lab, a work visa granted to those willing to stay in poverty stricken areas for a number of years. I was in awe. Mom came out of the hospital as I was chatting with them, and she said, "You can find anyone to talk to, even in a small place like this." I learned it from her.
With her day's work finished, we headed to Hazard, the metropolis of the area. While piddling in MacDowell, I had googled things to do in Hazard and the top choice was the Mother Goose House - a house with a goose on top. I told mom we had to go. After checking in at the hotel, I mentioned this number one Hazard site to the receptionist and asked whether is was worth a visit. She chuckled and printed out directions for us.
Our quest took us into the lower part of Hazard (the upper part being where strip mining took the top of the mountain and thus became the location of new development - the chain stores and restaurants.) The lower part is where the main street and dwellings follow the curve of the mountain base, a lovely drive with such a variety of architecture. As foretold, we could not miss the Mother Goose House. It was big and bold and very much situated on top of the house. It was the perfect weird for me, and I think mom even enjoyed finding something unique. (Upon further research, the Mother Goose has looked over lower Hazard since 1940. Its creation and completion were by George Stacy, a local man who worked for the railroad and one day had the bizarre idea to turn the roof of his house into a fowl. I am forever grateful for a man who could have such a vision and a great sense of humor.)
The next day, we went to Hyden. I cannot precisely say what caused it, but within the span of three hours, I was captivated by the charm of this small community. Unlike our previous two stops, this small community had an air of purpose and pride, especially concerning the hospital. The first people I met were the two ladies running the local program (my mom's appointment for the day.) Welcoming and ever-so-cheerful they were; one woman won my adoration when she said she loved to visit cemeteries after I told my mom I was off to discover things, like the local cemetery. This woman even took me to a window to point out the first one I should visit.
The Hickory Street pioneer cemetery was the first stop in my walk, a small grassy knoll filled with the founders of Hyden and their slaves (which were buried in the far corner.) The last person to be buried in the cemetery (so said the sign) was Margaret Combs Lewis (aka Peggy) in 1907. After about fifteen minutes of peering at tombstones and matching what I saw to the the posted map and history, I continued onward. I ended up on main street, garnering a lot of looks when I stopped to read a tourist sign outside the jail. Perhaps those peering out the windows were trying to understand why I was laughing out loud. I could not help myself after reading the following:
The two principal creeks, Cut-Shin and Hell-Fer-Sertin, supposedly received their colorful names from a disillusioned pioneer who tried to cross the swollen creeks after heavy rains. Among the towns, and villages in the county are Confluence, Cutshin, Sizerock, Smilax, Stinnett, Thousandsticks, Wooton, and Wendover.
Any town that can embrace a creek named Hell-Fer-Sertin has my interest.
After leaving the jail and window gawkers, I walked into the local library. Librarians tend to be a fount of knowledge and the wiry woman who greeted me did not disappoint. She was gracious and delighted in my questions and quest for recommendations on local sites and reads. She was persistent that I should check out a couple books, but when I calmly told her that I lived in China and they would be horribly overdue by next summer, she agreed that checking out may not be the best option. She wrote them on a piece of paper for me instead.
After leaving the library, I did find another cemetery but could not linger long for the mosquitoes moved in hordes among the tombstones.
I strolled into the School for Bluegrass Music, but after waiting for five minutes in the lobby to inquire whether a museum was located within the school, I realized I could have absconded with the electronics for the workers were having a grand time somewhere down a hallway.
I returned to the hospital via the main entrance so I could admire the statue at its corner with the main road. Mary Breckinridge is the local heroine, revered by locals and rightly so. In 1925 she began the Frontier Nursing Service, a midwife service to the mountains. In 1939, she opened the Frontier Nursing University (FNU), a midwifery school. Her story is fascinating - working alongside nurses in France during WWI, training to be a midwife in England, forsaking a life of high society to ride on horseback through the hollers of Appalachia. Her mark on the health of mothers and children in the area was great. Because of her, babies survived. Mothers survived. Families could thrive. On horseback, she and fellow nurses traversed far and wide. When the paths were inaccessible, people were floated down the creeks in canoes. Throughout the hospital (which is named for her), pictures depict her life and work. On the street corner, a statue stands in her honor. One of the best statues I have seen created and erected for a local hero.
At this point, I was due to meet mom. To my surprise and delight, we took the two ladies to lunch which provided a great opportunity for me to ask questions about the area. Plus, I learned they teach a local culture class for nursing students who must do a rotation at FNU during their studies at out-of-the-mountains universities. Mom even shared that when she was a student, she too went to Hyden and stayed in Wendover (Mary Breckinridge's home) during her two week rotation.
After lunch, mom and I went to the FNU campus. I had to catch a glimpse of such an iconic part of the community and mom wanted to retrace some steps from long ago, which involved seeing the brick from Florence Nightingale's home that was placed in the dormitory's fireplace mantle. Sadly, we learned there are plans to move the FNU campus closer to Lexington.
As we drove away from Hyden, I felt as though I had barely investigated it. Perhaps I was enamored as one who gets to visit, but does not have to live the day to day, but I sincerely hope I will return.
Our drive through the Appalachia region was at its end and we wove our way into the foothills bound for a reunion with my husband, Stephen, and McKinzee.
